Counterattack Through Pregnancy

I had gained thirty pounds after I was pregnant for six months. My husband, Jordan Smith felt disgusted by me. He would rather stay at work than come home, and he fell in love with his girl best friend, Holly Brown. On our wedding anniversary, they were acting intimately in a private room. Meanwhile, Holly was wearing my wedding gown. I saw the whole thing with my own eyes. She had her arms around Jordan’s neck and said to me coyly, “It’s not what you think.” Jordan was agitated after he was caught cheating on me. “I’ve known her since we were kids. We have been best friends for so many years. If something were to happen between us, it would have happened a long time ago.” However, I saw the hickey on Holly’s shoulder. She said to Jordan, “Your wife looks obese. My cousin didn’t gain a single pound after she had given birth. Instead, she looked even slimmer. Jordan, did your wife secretly eat pig feed?” Jordan felt embarrassed. He instructed someone to lock me in a bedroom and starve me for a few days. I suffered from a miscarriage. Indeed, I lost the weight on my abdomen, but Jordan went insane.

Due to my husband's unique status, I did not reveal his identity to my mother after we secretly married. My family was about to be relocated during the holidays, and I took the opportunity to visit my hometown. When I got home, my mother locked me in my stepbrother's room. I questioned my mother about it, and she said, "We're about to be relocated. If you get pregnant, the baby will be counted as an extra person. We'll be compensated with one more house and millions of dollars extra." I begged my mother to release me, but she said that it was better for me to stay in the family than marry into another one. "You and your brother aren't related, anyway. We can even save on dowry." I refused, so my mother got my brother to beat me up until I bled. As the date for the entire town to relocate approached, the developers arrived to distribute the compensation. My husband was among those who arrived. When he saw my bruised cheeks and the bump on my stomach, he went crazy.

My younger sister was in a bad mood and went drinking at a bar, only to be dragged into a room by a few men. Not long after, she ended up pregnant. My husband, to protect her, actually suggested divorcing me so he could marry her instead. "Brooke only went to that bar because of me. I can't let people talk about her. Don't worry—once the baby is born and the paperwork is done, we'll remarry." I refused, but he heartlessly abandoned me, seven months pregnant, on the side of the highway. With my swollen belly, I walked for over an hour before finally making it off the road. There, I found my husband and my sister standing together, mocking me in my miserable state. "You wouldn't even help your own sister. Serves you right to suffer like this." "Noelle, don't be angry. I'm about to give birth, and Jensen only did it 'cause he was only worried about me." At that moment, I finally gave up completely. "Fine. Let's get divorced."

Billionaire Ethan Gibson, determined to break the family's curse of ending without an heir, spent a fortune recruiting ten "candidate mothers" and placed them together on his private island. On the day they arrived, Ethan announced publicly: Whoever delivers his first heir will become the future mistress of the Gibson family. Greed grew faster than desire. Within just a few months, several women announced their pregnancies with great pride. However, they and their unborn children were thrown into the ocean and fed to sharks. The reason was simple: they had been found to be involved with other men. Every night, the screams coming from the harbor kept me awake. I was terrified, because I had also had a single accidental encounter with Ethan, and I was now pregnant. When the day finally came and I saw what I had delivered, everything went dark before my eyes. Those mistresses who were fed to the sharks had at least carried human babies. I had given birth to three tiny puppies.

I'm at the supermarket when an old woman I don't know suddenly grips my hand tightly. I instinctively shield my baby bump, but she says, "Someone has placed a swap spell on you. The dead baby is about to be transferred to your body soon." I think she's a liar, but she says, "Hurry up and try to make yourself vomit. You should try to throw up as much of that fish you just ate as you can."

On the day of the SAT exam, my girlfriend’s childhood friend, Benedict Casper, forgot his admission ticket at home. She insisted on retrieving it for him, but I begged her not to go. In the end, Benedict missed his final chance for taking the exam and, overwhelmed by despair, he jumped to his death. Years later, my girlfriend, Ella Simpson, and I graduated from Whitmore Institute of Technology, landed high-paying jobs, and built a picture-perfect marriage. But on the anniversary of Benedict’s death, she stabbed me repeatedly, her voice trembling with rage, “You killed him. If I’d gotten his admission ticket, he would’ve never jumped.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the exams. Ella’s frantic voice rang in my ears, “I have to go back, Dominic. I need to get Benedict’s ticket!” This time, I smiled and said, “Go ahead. Be careful on the way.”

My boyfriend, Nick, has finally returned after a decade-long battle in the south. I'm overjoyed when he tells me he'll marry me and make me his Luna. At that moment, I feel like I've finally found my home. But after getting pregnant, I accidentally come across a treasure trove of videos of him and my best friend, Sherry, in bed together. His journal also details his love for her. I log in to his extra WhatsApp account. Sherry has already blocked his number, but he still sends her messages of love—confession videos, words, and voice messages. I head to the hospital for a prenatal checkup. That's where I see My Alpha, Nick, getting on one knee before Sherry with a bouquet in one hand and his family heirloom—a moonstone necklace—in the other. He proposes to her. "I gave up on my dream to conquer the southern packs to return and see you, Sherry. I only have one goal—to marry you! Our child can't be without a father, and I'll mark you once you say yes! I'll make you my Luna!" he says. I turn away and make an appointment for an abortion. Then, I leave. Unexpectedly, he abandons Sherry and their child to come after me like a madman.

One of Ethan Sterling's closest friends got drunk and humiliated me. Called me a nobody orphan who married above her station, said I'd never be accepted by the Sterlings, that I wasn't fit to sit at their table. Ethan smashed a bottle over the man's head. He announced in front of everyone that if anyone ever disrespected me again, he'd make them pay. When I was pregnant and the morning sickness was so brutal I couldn't keep anything down, he went and scheduled a vasectomy. He didn't want me to suffer through another pregnancy. This was a man who loved me like I was his whole world. And yet — when I was lying on the operating table about to give birth, he was standing right in front of me with his arms around Iris, putting on a show for anyone watching. Iris was the daughter of another old-money family and she'd donated bone marrow to save Ethan's mother's life. The night before her own engagement, her fiance betrayed her, and the trauma wiped her memory clean. Now the only thing she knew for certain was that Ethan Sterling was her husband. In her world, I was the homewrecker — the scheming woman using the bastard in her belly to force her husband into a divorce. Ethan promised me it was all an act. Just repaying the debt for his mother's life. Once Iris recovered, he'd walk away from her immediately. But when I picked up the surgical consent form for him to sign, and his first instinct was to pull Iris behind him — to shield her — I knew. His heart had already drifted off course. The fairy tale of a Cinderella marrying into high society was over. Time to wake up.

As my due date approached, a massive discrepancy surfaced in the Galante family's arms accounts. The leadership made a swift decision. They sent me, Sophia Vitale, the Don's wife, the woman everyone claimed had nothing better to do, to personally inspect the armory and verify the inventory. I believed it was a routine check. I never imagined my husband's godsister, Monica Leone, would use it as cover to blow up the entire armory. The explosion was deafening. Fire ripped through the sky. Concrete collapsed around me, crushing my body as a searing pain tore through my abdomen. I did not call my husband on his highest-priority private line. Instead, I sent a distress signal to my father. In my previous life, the moment the explosion occurred, I had used that same priority channel to call my husband. The child had survived. Monica had been obliterated in the blast. My husband had claimed he did not blame me. He had said Monica was an outsider and that an heir mattered more. He had spared no expense, hiring elite obstetric specialists to monitor me day and night. He had told me to stay calm and wait for delivery. Then, on the day I went into labor, he personally locked me and the baby inside an abandoned warehouse drenched in gasoline and burned us alive. "If you hadn't deliberately delayed, she wouldn't have died. Do you really think playing the innocent victim could fool me? Dream on," he said. "You like playing with fire so much? Fine. I'll let you experience her despair yourself." When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the armory, at the exact moment of the explosion.

I was a violin prodigy. But to pay my mother’s debts, I was forced to give up everything. That’s when I met the man who would own me: Dante Moretti. He was the king of New York's underworld. The Don of the Moretti family. With a single phone call, fortunes were made. With a single glance, blood was spilled. The world didn't just bend to his will—it broke. And on that day… what he wanted was me. He gave me a five-year contract. A penthouse in a skyscraper overlooking all of New York. More jewels and gowns than I could count. Every night he needed me, I’d put on whatever lacy thing he picked out. We’d have sex. Five years. 999 times. There were moments—his sweat dripping on my forehead, his soft breaths inside me, the way he’d look at me—when I let myself dream he loved me. Then the video dropped. Him. On the street. Kissing another woman. I knew the truth. He was my keeper, not my lover. Everyone laughed. They couldn't wait to see me lose my mind, begging him to keep me. Instead, I turned my back on him. And married another man.